


common tongue of your loving me

by WhoopsOK



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Commiseration, Devotion, Drinking & Talking, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Feelings Realization, Good Sex, Happy Ending, Introspection, Magic, Multiple Orgasms, Not for Geralt though he's gotta work through some shit, Oral Sex, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Potions, Previous bad sex, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Protectiveness, Revenge Sex, Smut bracketed by plot, The Witcher Kink Meme, speed run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: Yennefer thinks about wanting and really, truly all she wants from Geralt is to be rid of wanting him at all. “I don’t feel all that lucky,” she drawls, “for having had him.”Jaskier laughs. “I know you don’t, but gods, what I would’ve given to find out what he’s like, you know…” He motions vulgarly.“It wasn’t worth it,” Yennefer informs him, nose scrunched. “It wasn’t even good.”(Yennefer and Jaskier really only have sex out of curiosity and spite the first time. There weren’t supposed to be any feelings involved.)
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 47
Kudos: 186





	common tongue of your loving me

**Author's Note:**

> So, I’ve learned there is a Witcher Kink Meme and, woof, y’all are so fun. Taking a (long) shot at [ this prompt](https://witcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/429.html?thread=619437).
> 
> Note: I know exactly nothing about game canon, I picked the name of the town because everyone I know from there hates it and also it’s fun to say. It’s not actually a shithole, though!!
> 
> Title from “Moment’s Silence (Common Tongue)” by Hozier.  
> In the beginning, Jaskier is singing “No Time to Die” by Billie Eilish.
> 
> 6Dec2020: Minor typo fix, whoops.

Pflugerville is a horribly dreadful little town and Yennefer can’t for the life of her understand why anyone would stay longer than it takes to walk through to the other side.

It’s by no means a small town, a truly sprawling waste of space that reminds her uncomfortably of her birthplace. She only passed through on a whim, but there’s something to be said for being fawned over by people who are impressed by the simplest tricks. Selling minor cures and curios is all well and good, keeps her entertained, but never for any great length of time. She would’ve moved along after selling the last of her minor drugs to people who obviously, _desperately_ needed the escape had the mayor not showed himself to be an uptight, cruel man.

The most horrible part of any city is usually it’s men, but _always_ it’s men of power.

Yennefer frowned when the women she was speaking with blanched at the sight of him. However, when he moved to have his guards seize them for making purchases without a husband present and she read the intent at the front of their minds, Yennefer laid him prostrate.

That hasn’t really changed in the last few days. _The little piggy_ is crawling on hand and knee around his own mansion, his loyal guards snuffling the floor behind him, but nobody has really seen fit to comment negatively on his absence. The town already seems a little less like a smudge on the map needing removal since Farmer Aleksy—a portly man with a far gentler disposition than his face would imply—running all the comings and goings. Yennefer may very well let him keep the town.

Before she’s made up her mind one way or another, she hears the singing.

At first, she was just entertained that they’d so soon shaken the yoke of mandatory quiet hours starting at sundown. The ground floor of Patka’s house is very clearly about to become a tavern, by the sound of it. It isn’t until much later, though, after she’s spoken with Aleksy about how he feels about a promotion, that she recognizes the last voice left singing.

The vaguely idyllic calm she’d been feeling the past week or so cracks right down the middle.

 _Geralt’s barker_ is in town.

Yennefer feels a sickening twist of longing— _not real_ —at the mere thought of Geralt, but the idea of him being so easily able to upset her tentative grasp on any kind of peace _enrages_ her. Her rage is real, untainted by anyone else’s wishes or whims, and she leans on it heavily as she follows Jaskier’s voice through town.

After a few steps, though, she does come to realize that the song is… _off._

Not that she makes a point to seek them out, but from what she’s heard of Jaskier’s songs, they seem as though they’re meant to be sung loud and in off-key chorus. She always imagines Jaskier stepping from table top to table top for a delighted crowd of drunks when she hears one of his songs.

It’s strange, even to her, to come round the corner and find him slumped against the outside of Patka’s house surrounded by a group of misty-eyed women strewn about the porch, gazing at him moonily.

“ _Was I stupid to love you? Was I reckless to help?_ ” Jaskier sings, eyes low on his own hands instead of out at his audience. His hair has gotten longer and falls across his face. “ _Was it obvious to everybody else? That I’d fallen for a lie…_ ”

 _…Gods_ , Yennefer is embarrassed for him. She’s never understood how he could shamelessly lay his heart out like this, especially when it’s so obviously in pieces and bleeding all over the place. Licking wounds should be done in private, if it is done at all. Yennefer finds fury much more appealing.

Still, her ire is stemmed some by the aching timbre streaked through every note of his song. Even as he looks, to Yennefer’s untrained eye, a bit annoyed at his own heartbreak.

Geralt’s memory still burns like a coal in her chest, but as tempting as it is to break his toys out of spite, it’s much less fun if they’re already broken and discarded.

Jaskier finishes his song to cooing applause and sniffles, a half dozen ladies swooning at the depths of his love.

Yennefer, of course, is not among them. “A bit maudlin for you, don’t you think?” she says.

Something has grown sturdier in Jaskier in the time since she’s seen him, because he doesn’t jump out of his skin like he might’ve a few years back. Though he goes theatrically wide-eyed when he sees her, moments later his expression shutters entirely. “Oh, _no_ , thank you,” he says primly, standing and shouldering his lute in one motion. His smile doesn’t even touch his eyes when he looks down at the women who are glancing between them in confusion. “You all have been truly delightful, a beautiful audience. Your presence alone will leave this town fond in my memories.”

“You’re leaving?” one of the younger girls ask plaintively like he isn’t stepping carefully around her skirts to get down the steps. “It’s past sundown!”

“A good bard always knows when to leave an audience wanting more,” Jaskier winks at her, fingers fluttering playfully at her fringes. He doesn’t even glance in Yennefer’s direction. “Stay lovely, dear friends.”

It is admittedly fascinating to her that he is one of the only men she’s ever met who can walk away from her.

“You mean to walk to the next town in the dark?” Yennefer calls casually, strolling along behind him, amused by how pointedly he refuses to look at her. He’s radiating apprehension and annoyance in equal measure. “Doesn’t seem you have your guard dog here to keep the bandits out of your pants.”

“Yes, well, thank you for that,” Jaskier sneers and Yennefer’s eyebrows raise.

“How is that _my_ fault?”

Jaskier scoffs softly. “No, no, you’re right. It’s my fault,” he waves her off dismissively in a way that rankles. “I played a fool too long and let myself become one. I never should’ve tried to compete with you, I’ve never played a good second fiddle.”

For a stunned moment, Yennefer doesn’t even understand what he’s on about. She pushes at his mind slightly to try and get the image, but he goes stumbling away from her with a glare. “ _Don’t do that!_ ”

Though she spares a moment to be impressed he even noticed, it’s far too late. She laughs at him to get the foul taste of his thoughts out of her mouth. “You’re _still_ a fool if you think I’m after Geralt.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re after him or not!” Jaskier exclaims, flushed with humiliation.

Yennefer feels a streak of cool anger at that. “It matters a great deal whether or not the person you’re pursuing wants the attention, _bard_.”

The offense on Jaskier’s face is genuine. “Nor was I implying otherwise,” he snaps instantly, arms wide. “My point is that _I_ , at least, know very well when my affections are not wanted, hence me being here in this,” his voice lowers to a hiss, “ _little shit heap_ of a town singing maudlin tunes about a _bastard_ of a man who couldn’t _give_ less of a shit about me! _Fifteen years_ I gave him before you came and then everything just—!” He turns away.

Yennefer expected some satisfaction out of seeing him hurt, but instead, when he blatantly wipes his face she almost… sympathizes.

Disgusting.

“You’re right that it’s not your fault, but gods,” Jaskier laughs, rubbing his forehead like she’s brought his hangover on early. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be entirely unloved, is all.” He looks at her then and she feels preternaturally seen. “It hurts to be reminded I always was.”

Empathy is _repulsive._ “You’re a noble,” Yennefer accuses, because she had, for some reason unknown even to herself, always had him in mind as a spoiled rich boy who ran off from his responsibilities to gallivant as a bard. It’s a fitting image.

Jaskier laughs, though, the sound no happier than before. “I’m the bastard son of a kept woman and a duke who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. My title is pretty, but quite useless,” he holds a hand up, “and let me cut you off right there—yes, like me.”

Yennefer can’t say the comment didn’t occur to her, but it’s much less funny when he says it about himself. “Being pretty has its uses,” she challenges, because this body cost more than she thought it would, but got her the perks she was promised. His laugh is softened this time, less edge to it as he tilts his head in allowance.

“I’m going to pretend you just called me pretty,” Jaskier tells her lightly. He appears to have slotted himself back together some now, still more worn than she remembers, but a step away from breaking down in public. She’ll let him have being pretty.

“I’m not running you off, Jaskier,” she finds herself saying, because, well… “If Geralt hasn’t yet realized what a fool he is for pushing you away and come groveling, I’ve got no reason to be rid of you.”

Jaskier looks surprised at that. “That was very nearly a compliment, are you well?”

That may well be the first time anyone has asked her that. She almost answers him.

Instead, she rolls her eyes. “I’m staying in the mayor’s manor,” she says, starting away from him without waiting for a reply.

“Is that—? You’re inviting me somewhere?” Jaskier exclaims in confusion, but she hears him rushing to follow her a few buildings later. “Oh, you truly are unwell. Is it poison? What were you given? If you tell me how, I’ll make you an antidote, I owe you at least that much,” he babbles as he falls into step beside her.

The people ending their night incline their heads to her politely, shooting Jaskier curious glances without comment. She returns them and shoots Jaskier a curious glance of her own, “You owe me nothing.”

“I resent that, you saved my life!” Jaskier replies.

The sour taste is back in her throat. The truth is it really hadn’t taken much out of her to fix him, not in the grand scheme of things she’s been asked to do. More to the point, at the time, she had wanted the debt in Geralt’s name out of curiosity and what a fat lot of good that did them all.

“It wasn’t your debt to pay,” she says flatly.

“Don’t remind me,” Jaskier says quite seriously, but a second later blurts, “You know, he never apologized?”

Yennefer laughs harshly. “Of course, he didn’t, when has he ever regretted anything?” That may be unfair and entirely untrue, but they both know that and see no need to call attention to it. “And yet you still sing the brute’s praises,” she prods, turning to walk backwards over the smoother cobbles of the mayor’s drive, mockingly humming _Toss a Coin_ under her breath.

Jaskier’s face pinches, but he shrugs, almost like he’s embarrassed. “The world still needs it’s White Wolf, even if we don’t.”

“How very kind of you,” Yennefer replies flatly.

“One of my many flaws,” Jaskier allows, eyes drifting up to the manor as they approach. “Ewelina led me to believe the mayor is not an altogether kind man…”

The sentence hangs like a question, which makes Yennefer smile, but she doesn’t reply.

Mayor Piggy’s less loyal guards stand at attention when she approaches, happy enough to be rid of their boss regardless of who did it. The gates are opened for them without question and Jaskier faintly says, “Oh…” staring off into the front garden where the mayor and his fellow abusers are sleeping, filthy and nude in a heap. “Oh, dear.”

“It’ll wear off in a few days,” Yennefer says dismissively, “Unless he gets it in his head to call himself mayor again.” With a quick motion, she magics a wine glass into her hand, “Will you drink with me?”

Jaskier tears his eyes away from the sight to watch her ascend the front steps. “I warn you, good wine makes me sentimental.”

A night for that, apparently, if she’s to spend it with the colorful ghost of lover’s past. She magics a refilling glass into his hand, shaking her head when he nearly fumbles it to the ground. “You’re always sentimental if you’re writing songs like that.”

“If I didn’t get it out, it’d eat me from inside,” Jaskier tells her, taking a swallow. “Oh, that’s delicious, well done. Music is medicine, Yennefer,” he declares loudly, like he hadn’t interrupted himself, “I’d love to be rid of the feelings, but… Actually, no, that’s steal the song, too. Even regret has a place in music, it’d be worse to regret a song never written than something deeply felt.”

Yennefer walks into a sitting room that has only been made inviting by her touch, lowering herself onto a fainting couch. “You’re not tired of feeling? It seems like terribly exhausting work.”

“You’re not fooling me,” Jaskier says, setting his lute carefully against the wall before falling into the arm chair beside her. “You and Geralt both pulled that nonsense; I know you feel plenty.”

“Nothing real,” Yennefer says, annoyed by the comparison. Whatever is in her expression, Jaskier reads it properly and doesn’t correct her. “Nothing that makes me want to sing.”

Jaskier’s laugh is bright this time, passes through his whole body on a wave of motion. “Everything makes me want to sing!”

Though she can’t honestly say she cares all that much about his latest song cycle, she doesn’t mind the sound of a familiar voice tonight, rambling drunkenly through his writing process. The ache Geralt left her with has sharpened anew with Jaskier’s presence, but it’s not the heart-stopping pain it would be if she didn’t know he was feeling something quite similar. Misery loves company and all that, she is at least not alone in this. So, she talks to him, finds his company not nearly as unbearable as she’d previously thought it would be. Their wit is fairly evenly matched, makes for a good spar when there isn’t any heat behind the jabs. Part of her is starting to think that while he is definitely _a lot_ , he’s not nearly as annoying when she isn’t thinking of him as a speck irritating her eye while she’s trying to get a glimpse of Geralt.

Maybe she’s seeing him more clearly tonight.

Or maybe she’s just exceptionally drunk, because she says, “What’s it really feel like? Being in love, I mean.”

The question has caught Jaskier in the middle of a thought and spun him out of whatever he was saying, staring at her with his mouth half open. “Oh, you’re truly hammered, aren’t you?” he says, like he hasn’t come out of his doublet, slumped down in his seat like he could hardly stay upright.

“Yes,” Yennefer answers honestly, “and I still want to know.”

Because Jaskier may claim to have been unloved his whole life, but he loves, she knows he does, fiercely and at the drop of a hat. Superficial or no, it’s realer than having a wish forced down her throat.

Jaskier lets his head loll back to consider the ceiling for a moment, letting out a heavy breath. “It’s wanting,” he answers after a spell. “All of it, just different sorts of _unending_ wanting. Wanting to be near them, wanting them to be happy, wanting to carry on with them wherever they go, wanting them to return to you when they’ve gone somewhere you can’t. Wanting them to want the same things as you,” he lists, slurring softly. He looks over at her, glassy eyed. “Suppose the ‘getting’ is the bit where people get tripped up, because getting is _lucky,_ but it’s not love, love is…”

“Wanting,” Yennefer finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says and takes an inadvisably long swallow of his wine watching it refill again.

Yennefer thinks about wanting and really, truly all she wants from Geralt is to be rid of wanting him at all. “I don’t feel all that lucky,” she drawls, “for having had him.”

Jaskier laughs. “I know you don’t, but gods, what I would’ve given to find out what he’s like, you know…” He motions vulgarly.

“It wasn’t worth it,” Yennefer informs him, nose scrunched. “It wasn’t even _good._ ”

“No! You’re serious?” Jaskier says, aghast. She just hums, nods vaguely, not actually at all turned on by the memory of Geralt’s cock splitting her open. The pleasure they shared was always a mind game, never a physical one for her. “Over a hundred years on this world and he’s never learned to _pleasure a woman_?”

His shock is funny so she lets herself laugh. “Why would he have bothered? Most men only get _one_ life time and they still don’t.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Jaskier replies, somehow even more aghast, scrambling to sit up straighter.

“What?”

“You’ve got men following you around like puppies,” he points at her, “Have you just been using their cocks as toys and seeing to _yourself_?”

This time her laughter startles out of her before she can control it, leaves her snorting inelegantly. She catches the way Jaskier’s outrage twists with joy at the sound of it. She covers her mouth slightly, still giggling, “Yes, whatever else would they be good for?”

“Holy fuck,” Jaskier says. “Yennefer, that is the most tragic thing I have heard tonight. You are _far_ too gorgeous for that to be true.”

Yennefer blinks at him. “You mean that.”

Jaskier blinks back for a moment, but then visibly makes the decision to agree with himself. “Yes, I do!” he challenges. “What on earth are you having sex for if not the pleasure of it?”

“There’s pleasure to it,” Yennefer argues, because she wouldn’t do it if there wasn’t. She’s at least a century past the part of her life where anyone could handle her any which way they wanted. “Are we really talking about this?”

“Yes, really, we’re friends now, yes?” Jaskier asks, but continues before she can answer. “Or at least not enemies, I truly have your best interests and orgasms at heart here.”

Gods, was he always this funny?

“I appreciate the dedication,” Yennefer replies, setting her glass aside. “Have you ever taken a man?”

Jaskier nods without hesitation. “Fewer men than women, but yes, I have.”

“And did you…” Yennefer pauses, considers her words. “You found it pleasurable on its own? Not an accessory to a hand on yourself?”

“Yes!” Jaskier answers emphatically, “I can’t always, you know, _come_ that way, but yes, it’s pleasurable. And I can’t even come as many times in a row as you could!”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Can’t say a man has made me come more than once.” She mutters, but almost smiles, bemused when Jaskier looks like he’s going to have a fit. “Am I going to have to sedate you?”

“ _Once?_ You’ve only come _once_ when you have sex?”

“Mm. My first time,” Yennefer answers, because thinking of Istredd doesn’t sting in the same way thinking of Geralt does. He’d betrayed her, too, but on her best-worst nights she still can let herself believe he loved her honestly. He _saw_ her and still loved her, handled her gently in a way no other man has since. Sex with Istredd at least involved more than shoving his prick into her until it was spent and useless to her.

There’s a bit of a wistful look on Jaskier’s face then, gazing off into some middle distance of his own first time, likely. “Ah, yes, firsts love often makes one— _wait,_ ” The nostalgia falls off his face, turning back to her with his face all screwed up again. “Wait, sorry, do you mean to say your first partner was the _only_ one to actually make you come?”

Yennefer waves him off dismissively. “Toys, Jaskier. All the other men have been toys to use while I get myself off.” Or marks groveling to get up her skirts at the slightest wink, but none of those even bear mentioning.

“Oh, _no,_ I can’t let that stand!”

“Pardon?”

Jaskier isn’t _groveling_ , but he is abruptly on the floor in front of her. It’s a sloppy approximation of a knight’s kneel, but remarkably steady considering how much he’s had to drink. She bites her lip to keep from laughing when he fumbles to take her hand, but she lets him do it.

“Lady Yennefer,” he says, in all the drunken seriousness he can muster, undeterred when she laughs at him. “I would be most humbled by the opportunity to show you a better time than whatever particularly sorry excuses for male lovers you’ve had previously.” He bows his head, to touch his forehead to the back of his hand. “In short, please let me get you off, it’s breaking my heart you’ve never had this.”

Yennefer laughs incredulously. “ _You’re_ truly wasted, aren’t you?” she asks him now, because for whatever, you know, _bonding_ may have occurred tonight, he’s been far too frightened of her for their whole their relationship to truly want to get between her legs when his blood isn’t mostly liquid courage.

“Quite, yes,” Jaskier says, but raises his gaze to look at her head on. “That in no way changes anything, actually, I’m an _expert_ at decision making while impaired, but! If you’d like, I’ll ask you again tomorrow. Or not ask you again at all, of course.”

Jaskier’s hands are warm around hers and, for once, for the first time, she feels an actual sense of warmth towards him. She’s not overly familiar with fondness, but she can acknowledge that’s what this is and… she spares a moment to think about wanting.

Oh, of course this isn’t love, nothing so deep, but there’s something to be said for that, too.

Love may very much not be real, not for people like her, but Jaskier—with his nice hands, and bright eyes, and clever tongue—is very real, and very much interested in her. Yennefer isn’t one to walk away from things she actually wants when it happens to be very close to climbing right into her lap.

Also, one day being able to tell Geralt that she left him in spite of his bullshit wish, fucked his bard, _and_ had a better time for all of it would truly be satisfying.

“I must admit, imagining Geralt’s face if he were to find out you’re a better lay may be worth more than the sex itself,” Yennefer tells him. It’s not very nice of her, perhaps, but Jaskier just laughs.

“It’s already doing wonders for my ego,” he agrees. “Sleep on it, then?”

“Sure, Jaskier,” she says, because she’s already nearing the somnolent stage of being drunk and, at the very least, it’ll be funny to watch him try and prove his worth. She stands without taking her hand from his, and not because she’s swaying. “Will you be joining me tonight?”

Jaskier staggers to his feet as well. “The last time I woke in bed with you, I thought you were going to kill me.”

That hadn’t exactly been off the table, but Jaskier doesn’t need to know that. “Is that a no?”

“No, I’m certain I’ve made worse decisions.”

Yennefer doesn’t let go of his hand and he follows her, like a lost puppy being treated kindly for the first time in ages, all the way to the mayor’s lavish bedroom.

They’re both nearly asleep before Yennefer has even motioned the candles out.

//

Mages have absolutely no reason to tolerate hangovers, so when Yennefer wakes up she immediately rubs her forehead, heals away the worst of the throbbing.

Then she registers the presence in bed beside her and stills with a hand over her face.

Oh, yeah. The Bard.

There isn’t any alarm or shame when she lowers her arm to squint over at him in the morning light. She’s never let herself get so drunk as to be unaware, much less around someone she barely trusts, so mostly she just lets herself list there, observing and _carefully_ paying attention to her own feelings.

Even now Geralt’s memory starts burning its way into the present, the morning when she woke up looking at him, feeling buoyant enough to question her own sobriety. How quickly the glow had faded under the searing hurt of Geralt’s betrayal.

There is no unnatural buoyancy to waking up next to Jaskier, just a tickling of curiosity as she watches him, face unflatteringly squished and somehow looking even younger in sleep. He _is_ a pretty thing, she’s willing to admit, more than enough to make up for the other less flattering parts of his personality. There are worse things to be than loud and shameless, especially when neither of those traits are accompanied by cruelty.

Drawing lines between Jaskier and Geralt is ridiculous—they are of a height, but the similarity about ends there—but it makes her feel better and if today is about hedonism, she may as well start small.

Up to and including enjoying the way, Jaskier wakes up like a cat, stretching into motion and already humming softly to himself. He looks blearily confused for just a moment when he sees her, then he’s brightly awake.

“Oh! Given that you didn’t kill me in my sleep, can I assume we are on good terms?”

Yennefer still finds him funny sober, what a gem. She turns to face him entirely, brushing his forehead, brushing the hangover from him along the way. “That depends on if you’re still willing to make good on all that big talk from yesterday.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, touching his head in wonder. “Well, isn’t that a neat trick! That’s worth at least three orgasms right there. What? Why are you laughing?”

The bathroom in this manor is not as extravagant as some others, but it’s better than the room at the inn full of wooden tubs and one shared strigil. This bath is cut of smooth stone, though the room is scarcely big enough to move around in otherwise. Jaskier seems enamored by it, though, chatting happily about architecture and the last time he had to squeeze out a window to escape an angry duke.

Yennefer remembers the duke in question, actually, met him once when he was a teen. They spend a delighted few minutes maligning the man, even as they sink into the water together. She doesn’t face away from him, catches him looking even though he keeps to his side of the tub.

“Would you like me to bathe you?” Jaskier asks as they soak, eyes half closed. “I rather enjoy washing hair, but…” He makes a face, flicking his fingers, “my previous muse was far too touchy to allow it.”

“You don’t think I’m touchy?” Yennefer teases, and doesn’t let herself focus on the thought of his previous muse.

Jaskier chuckles. “Oh, I think you make a good show of it,” he slants his eyes to look at her. “But I imagine you just know unworthy hands when you see them.”

Yennefer is certainly learning to spot them. She’ll indulge him, though, sits up out of the water, skin tingling as his gaze falls to her breasts. “Very well,” she sighs. “How would you like me?”

The immediate thrum of his arousal is gratifying, as is the fact that he doesn’t immediately act on it. He has her turn, his hands warm on her shoulders as he situates her in front of him. His mouth is still going several miles a minute, but his voice has gone soft as he pours water over her head and shoulders. The soap he uses very much smells like him and…that doesn’t actually bother her. She finds herself feeling liquid as he massages her scalp, lets out a quiet sigh as his hands fall down the back of her neck.

For however often she’s thought of herself as worshiped, it’s never quite felt like this. While he lets oil sit in her hair, he washes her body and, honestly, the fact that he’s _not_ taking advantage of that is winding her up. He is thorough, doesn’t shy from her breasts, but doesn’t _linger_ , though she finds she nearly wants to snarl at him to get on with it. That feels too much like surrender, though.

“Tease,” she accuses with a shudder when he leans close against her back to wash between her thighs. His laugh is close on her neck, raises goosebumps all down her spine.

“Guilty as charged,” he agrees, lowering his mouth so damn near her shoulder it tickles. “May I kiss you?”

Yennefer pretends to consider it, humming before she says, “I suppose.” His mouth is warm and soft as he kisses his way across her shoulder up her neck. She tilts her head so he can reach the underside of her jaw, breathing out quietly. “I can’t really return the favor like this.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “I’ll wash for you, Yennefer, don’t worry.”

It wasn’t that she was worried, but when she sinks into the water to rinse, he does make quick, if thorough, work of himself. When he sits up out of the water, she’s standing before him gets to watch his mind sputter at the sight of her.

“Beautiful, absolutely stunning,” Jaskier says, reaching out a hand that doesn’t touch her, just hovers between them. “May I?”

 _May I, may I,_ what is this man?

Settling over him, Yennefer meets his lips directly then and is already thrown. He doesn’t shove his tongue into her mouth, doesn’t bite her lips. It’s all in all a rather _polite_ kiss and, well, part of her supposes that makes sense as a first kiss. If not for the fact that they were completely naked and she could feel him, hard and hot, against her leg. He calls no attention to it, though, even as he moans slightly and pulls her into his lap. Even when she leans into him and his lips part against hers, he doesn’t hold her down, his hands smoothing up and down her back as though he just wants to feel her.

This kind of impatience is new, leaves her aching and slick between her legs. “ _Jaskier_ ,” she growls, a warning this time, and feels him shudder down his whole body when she nips at his jaw.

“Right,” he says and then he’s _standing with her_.

Somewhere between the constant fluttering motion and colors and chattering, she’d put him together in her head as a song bird—hollow boned and dainty. It doesn’t seem like he should be strong enough to lift much of anything, but he holds her with ease, even as he turns to step out of the tub.

“Do _not_ drop me,” she warns him, magicking the water off their bodies before it can make the floor slick.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assures her and, true to his word, doesn’t.

By the time he’s sat Yennefer down on the bed, she’s unwilling to let him go, regardless of whether he proves his point or not. Jaskier seems unbothered by this, falls over her, just barely catching himself on his elbows to keep from crushing her.

But then he _does_ prove his point.

Even with his hands all over her body, there’s no pushing, no prodding, only squeezing delicately, reverently. His mouth follows his hands down her neck, across her breasts. She fists at his hair as he sucks her nipples and it makes him groan like he’s dying, whispering, “ _yes, yes, please_ , down” her sternum and stomach. When his mouth meets her arousal, she feels it like lightning in the air, spasms before his tongue has even properly greeted her.

Greet her it does, though, until she’s breathless with it, legs tight around his head. “ _Fuck,_ Jaskier!”

Jaskier pulls back to look at her and she’d slap the cocky look off his face if she didn’t feel like the best sort of exposed nerve. “May I—?”

“Yes!” Yennefer snarls at him, because he could do a great number of things to her right now and she’d still forgive him. She groans, falling back into the sheets when his fingers hook into her body a second before his mouth seals around her arousal. He doesn’t let up until she comes again, and again, and _again_ —

“ _Gorgeous,_ ” he slurs several dizzying orgasms later, the word buzzing right against her clit. “You come so beautifully, Yennefer, truly a sight. Would you like more, my dear, hm? Or should I fuck you?”

_Gods._

Jaskier still quakes when she grabs him by the hair, pulling him upwards. When he gets to his knees to crawl closer to her, she can see his cock, angry red and drooling between his legs.

Never in her life has she wanted something in her body more.

“Jaskier, if you don’t get your cock in me right now…” she says, an empty threat that she leaves hanging because she doesn’t know what she’ll do.

“Yes, yep! Can do, desperately want to, as well, fuck, Yennefer…” Jaskier babbles shakily. She feels like a wild thing, her nails digging into his back when he reaches between them to guide his cock towards her cunt.

Taking a man has never been this easy.

That’s not even a joke about Jaskier’s manhood, it’s no smaller than anyone else’s she’s taken, but it’s never been this _easy_. Even when it hasn’t hurt, it’s always been a jerky affair; a man barely slick with the spit off his palm shoving his way inside her. It’s always been tedious, letting him thrust into her until she’s played with herself enough to actually get wet.

Jaskier has ensured she’s a sight wetter than she’s ever been and they both are better off for it. He fills her in a long, _delicious_ press to the hilt that leaves them both gasping against each other’s mouths.

“ _Gods_ , you feel so fucking good,” Jaskier sighs, laughing breathlessly. “Knew you would, you _wonderous_ woman, you.”

Yennefer can’t even find it in herself to begrudge his babbling. She pulls him down for a kiss, though, mostly to smother the noises swelling up from her core as he starts to move.

Wrapping each other up, Yennefer can’t get enough handfuls of him. She closes her legs around him and strokes her hands over his head, down his shoulders and back, grabs at his hips. Then Jaskier adjusts on his knees and thrusts into her in a way that has her spine arching without her even meaning to do it. Her head falls back and he abandons her lips to burry his face in her neck, the new angle leaving her wailing.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Fuck, Jaskier, don’t stop!” she begs— _begs_ , and when has she _ever_ in her _life_ —

“Yes, darling, take it all,” he pants, the words shaking as he continues to fuck her. He gets an arm under her back to keep her posed right where she is and his other hand fumbles between them for only a moment before he presses his thumb against her clit.

Gods, she goes damn near blind with it.

Coming like this, while he’s still working her over, bleeds the orgasms all together until she feels like she may very well go right to pieces. It feels like _chaos_ under her skin, like he’s pressed right up against everything that makes her a witch and squeezed it in his fist until there was nothing left but pleasure.

“ _Yennefer, fucking gods, yes, yes,_ ” Jaskier is babbling to himself and his thrusts have gone all off beat. “Can I—? Fuck, _please_. In you—?”

Yennefer is still reeling, but an orgasm is the very least he deserves after making her feel this way. She clenches around him, lighting up inside at the feeling as he grunts. “Yes, Jaskier, come on then, _good boy,_ ” she coos at him and feels him lock up tight against her. He lets out a high sound against her skin, coming pressed up deep inside her.

All his shuddering and jerking squeaks one, final weak orgasm out of her that feels more like a ripple along every single nerve in her body. “Fuck,” she whispers faintly, sighing when Jaskier turns his head to kiss her.

“A little better than a toy, then?” Jaskier smirks, but his hair is all sweaty and stuck to his flushed face. But his eyes are bright with mischief and joy, and he’s still breathing like he’s been running. But he’s still something like hard inside her and his hand is still on her side, gentle and warm.

Ego stroking has only ever been a strategic move for Yennefer and the reflex is there to bat away such obvious fishing.

But she’s so wet she’s fairly certain she’s soaked into the mattress and the idea of never getting this again is _abhorrent._

…Yennefer can be nice.

“Far better than a toy, Jaskier,” Yennfer sighs like she’s really put out to admit it, pushing his hair back from his face. She means for that to be the end of the motion but he leans his cheek into her palm, looking deeply pleased. She thinks about wanting again and how his smile is too genuine and soft to be directed at her, leaves something sweet running like a stream in her chest. She doesn’t know how to name it or tame it, so she lets it go on its way. “How does anyone ever let you out of bed?”

That successful gets his eyes off of her, crinkling shut as he laughs. “Usually, I’m getting chased,” he admits, pulling out of her as they both shudder. Collapsing beside her with a sigh, he looks over, drowsy and content as he raises his arm invitingly. “I’d never leave otherwise.”

“Nobody will be chasing you off today,” Yennefer assures him, considering him curiously. Not all wanting is love, it can’t be, it’d be _exhausting_ , even for him. Then again, maybe it is; maybe he’s gotten so used to wanting, he’s never learned not to ask for things.

Anyone else and she wouldn’t even bother considering _cuddling_ , but as it stands, she’s feeling sweet on him. He gave and gave to her, no greed or deceit, and that’s enough to make the space beneath his arm feel… _safe_ is a strong word, but it’s close enough.

Jaskier settles down into the sheets when she rolls away from the wet spot, slotting herself against his side. His chest hair tickles her cheek for a moment, but eventually they settle together. Shortly, of course, he starts humming under his breath as he plays with her hair and she’s thinking of what she’d like to do for the rest of the day, where she—where _they_ could go for breakfast. Her thoughts keep circling back to the body beside hers, though.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” she asks.

“Hm? Between who’s legs, you mean?” Jaskier asks.

Yennefer would shoot him a look, but she’s comfortable under his chin.

“I can hear you rolling your eyes,” he grumbles, but answers the question.

Then spends the rest of the day answering a dozen other questions she never even asked and pestering her with dozens of questions nobody else has been bold enough to ask.

Surprisingly enough, it’s not a bad day.

//

It wasn’t exactly in either of their plans to leave town together, but they also hadn’t planned on running into each other at all. Things change.

Yennefer has gotten Mayor Aleksy set up to have a long and happy life leading Pflugerville out of the gutter. He even, out of the kindness of his heart, set up the previous mayor in a quaint little house on the edge of town with his most loyal followers to root about for mushrooms to their hearts’ content. She’s not holding his hand past that, but he doesn’t seem keen to ask. She’s not staying here, there is money to be made elsewhere.

In the past few days, Jaskier has scarcely left her side save for performing at Patka’s and scribbling out sheet music for her daughter. When he isn’t entertaining the townsfolk, talking about how to establish a tavern friendly to bards, he’s falling face first into Yennefer who always catches him joyously, recklessly.

Really, she should know better. She was never meant to be spoiled; that has been made abundantly clear in every phase of her life. Jaskier never got that memo, though, or did, but promptly tossed it in the fire. Every way he’s learned to pleasure someone, he shows her, repeatedly, until they exhaust themselves.

Waking up to his kitten stretches and soft humming has spoiled her. She keeps thinking about wanting, the words neither of them have said even as they both feel their feet growing itchy, the call of the road making this rustic town feel claustrophobic in a way it hadn’t upon arrival.

“So, where are you off to?” Jaskier asks her, strolling beside her as she stands at the edge of town, the road he would take if he were headed anywhere worth going.

Yennefer doesn’t deign walk farther than she has to. She hums, shrugging. “I have a contact looking for some favors up north,” she answers vaguely, working open a portal in front of them. “Could be some interesting songs up there.”

Coming from her, it’s as good as an engraved invitation.

Jaskier had been watching the portal twirl and spark with trepidation, but now he’s just looking at her, her magic casting colorful slashes of light across his face. Once his surprise fades, his shoulders loosen and he nods, shrugging. “Could be,” he agrees, “If that’s where my muse takes me.”

That bright feeling in her chest returns and she smirks at him, stepping through the portal.

Jaskier follows.

That becomes the moral of the story rather quickly.

Wherever Yennefer goes, Jaskier strolls in at her shoulder or finds a tavern nearby until she’s finished with whatever must be done without someone announcing her presence. Weeks spool into months, that stretche over into years, and they have made professions of this. Though he’s still a bard more than anything, Jaskier actually makes a passable spy. He also makes for good company; in bed of course, but also on the road, in throne rooms, in tiny magic shops, in gambling dens they had no business entering, but leave heavy with coin right on the cusp of inciting violence.

Yennefer has never had more fun in her entire life.

And Jaskier sings of her, of course, the lovely lark. His songs for her are about beauty and power, struggle and victory, about grit; he paints her as a heroine to be revered, a queen to be feared, a _goddess_ to be worshiped. His love for her—and it is that, he says it plainly and sings it frequently—is usually only sung in riddles or in private, but she hears them, they stick in her head like the sweetest of honey. She makes up more of his song cycles than anything else. More than enough that, now, years later, she will hold her tongue when he sings of Geralt, because at the end of the day she knows Jaskier’s tongue is _hers_.

 _The world still needs its White Wolf, even if we don’t,_ he’d said that first night and she can agree on good days, because it’s true enough. There will always be monsters, of the sort Jaskier and Yennefer can’t dismantle on a whim. Witchers are still needed in the grand scheme of things. Whatever feelings for Geralt may have been conjured into her, she’s never _needed_ him.

This is what she needs.

Jaskier composing while they lay naked together, tracing notes on her stomach, or with her hair curled around his finger, or her legs tangled in his. She needs his songs, the secrets he hears and whispers against her ears, his smile and his touch. They fuck a lot, constantly almost, if they have the time. He calls her love and it doesn’t feel like a lie, no matter how many times and how many ways he says it. She doesn’t say it back, but she offers him magic.

There’s a crystal around his neck that she made for him a few months after they’d started off together when he’d fooled around and nearly gotten himself kidnapped.

“Break it,” Yennefer told him firmly, still trying to sound bland and not like she wants him with her more than she can put into words. “Yank the chain as hard you can, stomp it under your heel, burn it, whatever. Break it and I’ll come for you, always.”

Jaskier had looked like he wanted to cry, holding the stone in his hand. “I feel like I should get you a ring.”

Yennefer had laughed, the way she always did when he startled her with something sweet, “I’m no wife, Jaskier.”

“No, but you’re my Always,” Jaskier replied, his hand cupping the side of her face. “I’ve never had one of those.”

And she _couldn’t,_ she couldn’t put it into words, she still couldn’t say it, but she’d smiled at him, her eyes stinging when he smiled too. “I’ve never had one either.”

Jaskier does get her a ring, actually, but presents it on a chain, much like the one she’d laid around his neck.

Sharing is not something Yennefer had ever really been used to, but there are a number of things that pass between them easily over the years. Jewelry and enchanted daggers, platters of food and bottles of wine, oils and soaps, on a few interesting occasions some very potent drugs.

It doesn’t occur to her that a life is something to be shared, too, until she’s offered payment in the form of a potion that, while rather expensive, she doesn’t exactly need. She takes it, though, tries to play it off like she’s rather annoyed by the prospect.

Jaskier knows her quite well, though, follows her eyes right to the swirling silver potion in her hands. “Ooh, that’s pretty,” he offers false-lightly as he comes in the door.

Yennefer hums, setting it on the table between them. “It’s for you.”

“You do know I like pretty things,” he says with a wink, but there’s a seriousness to his face that lets her know her casualness has been seen through. “What for?”

“To keep you around a bit longer,” Yennefer answers cryptically, watching him go still. By now, he’s got lovely crow’s feet, but his hair hasn’t streaked grey just yet.

It won’t have to for a long time yet, if he doesn’t want it to.

“How much is a bit?” Jaskier asks softly, looking at the vial like he understands how much something like that would cost. He couldn’t possibly, but he also couldn’t fathom all of what it’s worth to her to keep him with her as long as he’s willing to stay.

Yennefer meets his gaze. “Decades, if you wanted.”

Jaskier looks at her with such adoration it pains her, before he reaches to uncork the vial. He swallows it in one go and she kisses the grimace off his face. “Dear heart, I’d give you centuries, if I could,” he admits, voice shivery and quiet.

 _In doses of decades_ , she thinks, because she values him too much to trap him knowing very well how that feels. It hasn’t been quite that long, but he’s already soaked through with her magic.

“Like a stain on your soul,” she explains vaguely, playing with his fingers.

“Like _perfume_ on my soul,” Jaskier offers kindlier, kissing the back of her hand.

The point is, she could find him anywhere, miles and miles away. He enters a room and she feels it, the minor relaxing of her spine, the way he brings light and sound into her heart without trying. She senses his presence like he’s magic himself.

So, the very moment something wounds Jaskier, she feels it like a phantom ache and her heart freezes over, sinking in her chest.

Abruptly, she doesn’t give a single shit about this party or the prince she’s supposed to be conning or the payout she’s missing by leaving; she’s tearing open a portal and rushing through it. She doesn’t need a trinket to know where the other half of her heart is beating, of course she doesn’t.

Yennefer strides through the portal to see Jaskier holding his face and stumbling backwards, bleeding all over himself, shouting, “ _Geralt!_ ”

And, sure enough, there he is.

Nearly ten years older and worse for it, but she and the rancid magic in her soul would recognize Geralt deaf and blind. He’s got a near-feral gleam in his eyes as he stares Jaskier down, snarling, “You had _no fucking right_ to her!”

Icy rage settles itself over Yennefer in a heavy cloak. She’s well past seeing red, but the second he even vaguely lifts his foot to advance on Jaskier again, Yennefer loses all semblance of control.

Geralt tenses like he finally notices her, the swelling of her magic, but he doesn’t react nearly fast enough to avoid being flung across the courtyard.

“No _right?_ ” Yennefer spits, so caustic the words feel like they’re boiling out of her mouth. She’s going to run _through_ him, she’s going to take his _head_ from him. “You tried to _curse_ me to belong to you,” she continues, knocks him flat with a savage wipe of her arm when he attempts to sit up, “and you have the nerve—”

“ _Yennefer_ —” he tries, but he’s said _enough_.

“—to talk about who has the _right_ to me!? How _dare you_ ,” Yennefer doesn’t know what feeling shreds her voice like that, but she watches her magic claw through his cast of quen and catch him in the face, “lay your hands on _my bard_ , you won’t take him from me, Geralt, I’ll kill you before—!!”

Yennefer’s next step comes up short, but by no magic of Geralt, who’s cradling his wounded eye with shock.

Jaskier has scrambled over to her fearlessly to grab her by the ends of her dress. “Yenny, _Yenny_ ,” he’s saying and _he’s hurt_ , she thinks suddenly, whirling to face him.

“Jas—”

“Right here, darling, you know I’m sturdy enough to take a punch,” Jaskier promises, peering up at her through one wide eye. His nose is broken and his eye is swelling shut, but when she cradles his face, she finds the damage is no worse than that. He pulls himself to his feet unsteadily with her help. “Your point is quite well made, gods know it is, but I don’t think we really want to see him dead today.”

That is so offensively, _disgustingly_ intuitive of him. For however much she hates Geralt, more so today than at any point before, she still feels the twist of that horrid wish in her chest. Their fates are tied and for all that she wants that tie unbound, she doesn’t want to have to kill him. However…

“For this, I could,” she tells Jaskier fiercely, but focuses her magic into his face, healing it with only a slight burn that he winces at, eyes watering. Delicate healing was never her strong suit, she’s only really learned on him and he’s never complained. She wipes the blood from his nose with her mouth pinched, though. He’s had enough pain today. “If he wants to die,” she starts, then raises her voice without looking away from him, “If Geralt means to die, he can find a hundred less painful ways than laying hands on _you_.”

Jaskier winces, but nods, squeezing her hand where it rests on his cheek. “I know, my love, I hear you,” he promises. “Even surely he’s not so dense as to have missed that particular memo.”

Yennefer doesn’t turn to check one way or another if it seems Geralt understands. She doesn’t want to encourage him to say another word to either of them. The moment he shifts in the edge of her vision, she doesn’t even want Jaskier _near_ him. The bard is not his to have, much less to hurt, and she wants to put miles and years between them.

Though she is loathed to take her hand off Jaskier, she needs the focus to twist open another portal for them. She glances around briefly only to grab his lute where it’s fallen—she wants to wring Geralt’s neck anew—before pushing Jaskier through.

This field is familiar to her only in the vaguest sense.

They’d passed through it several springs ago, sat pressed together in the sunlight among the dandelions and lazy, fat bees while they ate berries, sticky-fingered and smiling like children.

Today, Yennefer is far from that feeling of contentment, but doesn’t realize she’s shaking until Jaskier sets his lute _on the ground_ to pull her into a hug.

“Hey, come here, it’s alright, I’m right here,” Jaskier says and she wants so terribly to hate him for it. She doesn’t need _coddling_ , doesn’t need his whispers and reassurances. She’s _angry_ , not frightened, she’s not—

Yennefer grips the back of his doublet in both fists, focuses on the steady pound of his heartbeat, the sound of his breath against her ear. His presence, his warmth around her is all she needs to know the world is still solid under her feet. Whatever else, whoever else may come and go, if Jaskier is here, nothing has really truly been lost.

It could’ve been, though.

“I will not stand for you to be hurt that way,” Yennefer pulls back to say, but not enough to dislodge herself from his arms. “Not by _him_ or anybody else, not you, Jaskier. With you, I have known love, _honest_ love, and…” She swallows, looking up into his eyes and she… cannot step around the words delicately anymore, doesn’t know how to navigate this without the whole truth. “I love you far too much to let that be taken from me.”

In a blink, Jaskier’s expression folds like he may cry even as he smiles at her. “Oh, dear heart, I’m not going anywhere,” he tells her, kissing her soundly. “Not so long as you’d have me.”

“That could be centuries,” Yennefer warns him.

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, resting his forehead against hers, “if I am very, very lucky.”

//

Pflugerville is a bustling cottage town these days, not quite big or busy enough to count itself as a city, but a name known to those looking for safe hostels in the countryside.

There are not many people old enough to personally remember the hand Yennefer had in that by now. However, there is an interesting folk song the townsfolk sing sometimes about an evil mayor run crazy by a witch, living his life as a hog in the forest. Jaskier swears he had nothing to do with that other than encouraging Patka’s granddaughter to pursue music, but she doesn’t bother calling him on the lie.

It’s not her favorite song, but it does give her a sense of fond nostalgia.

So, she smiles, a little giddy on _White Gull_ and half chats with the newest mayor about the town’s latest goings-on. Mostly she just watches as Jaskier dances around the room with the town’s bard—a terribly young man, who keeps glancing at Jaskier with bald awe—as they lead the room through a raucous chorus of _Hogs in the Garden_. And then into a dozen other songs Yennefer has learned by heart by exposure alone.

Tonight, none of them are about heartbreak. _Or_ any witchers they may know.

Jaskier is sweating and alight when he ends his set, but sweeps her into his arms, twirls her through the clunky, but charming waltz the bardling has written. The boy about faints when Yennefer smiles at him, but bids them goodnight in an impressively steady voice.

The mayor’s manor is a much brighter and livelier place than it had been, full to the brim of cheerful staff and children turning in for the evening. Nevertheless, Yennefer and Jaskier are given a room quite familiar to them without even having to ask for it.

Unlike the first time, though, there is no confusion or hesitation in the morning. Jaskier wakes Yennefer up with a love song pressed against her shoulder, her collar, her neck, her lips. Yennefer pulls him in with a whisper of, “ _Hello, dear heart,_ ” and he looks at her with so much love it aches in her chest.

Unlike that first time, she doesn’t have to ask him about love, because she doesn’t have to wonder at all. He’s shown her quite thoroughly.

Love is wanting, yes, but in this, with _him_ , love is _having_ , too.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…I say it a lot, but it always bears repeating: know your worth and add a convenience fee
> 
> In true Whoops fashion – was this supposed to be this long? Absolutely not! But look at you! You’ve made it to the end! I hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> Fic rec, for a Yennefer/Jaskier story that actually ends in a threeway because Geralt manages to get over his case of terminal headassery:
> 
> [ A history of dragons in popular culture](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23264560) by Deputychairman


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